A House Called Askival

by Merryn Glover

  ‘Friends,’ Verghese said at the end, ‘I have no better way to finish the testimony of this man’s life than in the words of his own choosing.’ He unfolded three sheets of paper, crumpled, dog-eared and frayed. The typed text was much scored and hatched, the margins dense with notes. ‘Months ago I asked Dr James to give the sermon one Sunday. He kept telling me he wasn’t ready, was still working on it. The last time I saw him, he gave this to me and said, It is finished.’

  Verghese smoothed the sheets on the pulpit.

  ‘In the end, he crossed everything out.’ He looked up and over the hundreds of heads before him. ‘Months of work, years perhaps. A lifetime. On the last page, only this remained.’

  An intense quiet; even the children stopped their scuffling.

  ‘Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God showed his love among us—’

  His voice began to crack.

  ‘He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God—’

  He paused, pressed his hand over his trembling chin. Took a breath.

  ‘– but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.’

  Verghese whipped off his glasses, face crumpling, tears splashing down his nose.

  James was buried beside Ellen that bright October day, a gentle sunshine falling on bowed heads and damp faces. The deodars were a guard of honour, branches hushing an ancient requiem, sap a pungent balm for the dead. All around, the steep bank was velvety with moss and dotted with flowers, while at their feet, the open grave smelled of deepdown things, of the falling and dying of leaves, the rising of life.

  Ruth and Hannah stood close, arms around each other’s waist, leaning together and shaking as they wept. James’ death had opened spaces between them and they had shared much, including Ruth’s lost baby. Hannah had cried for her and gathered wildflowers which she now dropped into James’ grave, whispering to Ruth, ‘For our little David’. Iqbal was at their side, his hands twisted together, face a waterfall. He was meant to sing Amazing Grace at the end, but only got to the second verse when he broke down. Hannah and Ruth wrapped their arms around him as Mrs Puri took up the tune, bosom heaving, eyes closed.

  Tis grace that brought me safe thus far,

  And grace shall lead me home.

  As the others made their way up the steep path to the road, the sisters stayed by the grave, their hands dirty from the earth they had thrown. When all was quiet Ruth knelt and pulled the kara from her wrist, touched it to her lips and let it fall onto the dark soil.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The next night, Ruth walked with Hannah and Iqbal into a sea of lights. It was Diwali. The walkways leading to the school Quad were lined with dias, oil lamps that flickered like fireflies, while above and around them, the balconies were festooned with bright coloured bulbs. Streamers criss-crossed the open space, and from every pillar and railing there was the gentle swinging of paper lanterns, foil stars and flowers.

  ‘So lovely!’ Ruth said, stopped in her tracks. At their feet was a geometric design made of coloured chalk with a dia in the middle. Further designs dotted the pavements, drawing them in and reminding her of the mandala Kashi had created the night before Gospel went to Delhi. Tonight she was in a sari for the first time since dancing Maya Magdalen. A deep, shimmering turquoise, it had been a gift from Mrs Puri. Hannah’s was midnight blue, while Iqbal remained in mourning white.

  They stood watching a troupe of elementary girls swirling in wide skirts, clapping and skipping their way through a Garhwali folk dance. After them, a long line of school servants dressed in lungis and turbans filed into the space and formed a circle. Their bare chests glistened in the lights and in their hands were brightly coloured sticks.

  ‘Oho!’ said Iqbal, ‘The banghra! This is the best bit.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember,’ Ruth nodded, smiling, but before she could say more, the loud music had struck up and the men were off, circling and twisting, leaping and hitting their sticks together. These were wrapped with cap gun paper, making the whole performance a wild, fire-cracking whirl. Suddenly the dancers threw their sticks to the ground, broke rank and ran into the crowd, catching people and pulling them into the dance.

  Ruth protested but Hannah grabbed her other hand and drew her in.

  ‘Come on Ruthie!’ she cried over the din. ‘This one’s for you!’

  The music lifted and wailed and the circle took off, pounding around to the left, hopping and clapping, then stamping back round to the right. Inevitably, people collided, turned the wrong way, dug each other in the ribs and buttocks, tripped on saris and lost shoes. But all were laughing: hooting, squealing, rippling with laughter; even Ruth, who couldn’t remember when she had laughed so hard. As the music went wild, she found herself stamping and sweeping like a dervish, and when it finally blasted to its triumphant close she threw herself into the roar of voices and applause, almost splitting her sari blouse as she gasped for breath.

  Her head was wheeling, her sides aching, her feet on fire.

  * * * * *

  She returned to Askival alone. In the deep quiet of dawn she walked up the path and around the house to the rise behind it where the giant deodars stood. Beneath her to the south, the bazaar and the lower hills were sunk in darkness. The sky rose from it, seamless, blurring from black to inky blue to a humming indigo in the north-east. There, the long line of the Himalayas was a silhouette, its ragged edge growing sharper against the lightening sky.

  A touch of wind feathered the trees and she breathed in their cedar scent and the foretaste of winter. Rubbing herself to keep warm, she felt the empty space at her wrist where the kara had been, and the tenderness in her ribs from last night’s dancing.

  Askival sat hunched in the clearing below her with its face dark, shadows pooling on the veranda. She watched the slow coming of light over its broken roof and walls, its empty windows and lost doors. It would fall down, she knew. It would crumble, till the stones returned to the ground and the trees grew up through the floor and the birds came back to build their nests. And it would be beautiful again.

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am deeply grateful to so many people for their help in the writing of this book. Their number is legion, their kindness unbound.

  Firstly, the many staff, alumni and associates of Woodstock School, India, who answered countless questions and shared with me their memories. It would take another volume to name them all, but special thanks to: Kavi Singh, for reading a draft and providing help, history and humour; Steve Alter, for support personally and through Mussoorie Writers; Deirdré Straughan, for gathering a treasure-trove of stories for the school’s 150th; and to the late and much-loved Reverend Bob Alter, who was a rich store of information and encouragement. I am indebted to the memoirs of several from the Woodstock community, especially Steve Alter, Joseph Alter, Stanley Brush, Katharine Parker Riddle, and Marguerite Thoburn Watkins. Thanks also to Ganesh Saili, Ruskin Bond, Inder Prakash, Vinoo Bhagat, and the late Miss Edith Garlah for helpful information. And lastly, from the Woodstock stable, my love and thanks to Kathy Hoffmann, English teacher, mentor and dear friend, for reading many drafts and lending wise feedback and unflagging faith.

  Others also gave generously of their time to read a draft and offer responses. Thanks to John Jebaseelan, Indrajit Ayer, Barbara Deutschmann, Anna Ghosh, Arun (Prabha) Mukherjee, Claire Anderson-Wheeler, and Sara Maitland, through Hi-Arts. In addition: Chris Powi
ci, who also gave encouragement through Stirling Writers and Northwords Now; Kirsty Williams of BBC Scotland, who has been a stalwart champion; Fiona Thackeray, friend and writing buddy; Jo Falla, sage mentor; and the late and much-missed Gavin Wallace of Creative Scotland. Deep gratitude to Maria White of Booklink, who gave so much.

  I acknowledge the support of key organisations in the writing of this book and extend my appreciation to: Creative Scotland for a generous bursary; Jan Rutherford and The Scottish Book Trust for granting me a mentorship; Peter Urpeth of Emergents (formerly Hi-Arts) for ongoing support; and the Arvon Foundation at Moniack Mhor for two weeks with inspirational fellow writers. Thanks also to the encouragement of those in the Society of Authors in Scotland and The Highland Literary Salon.

  Deepest thanks to the team at Freight Books, especially Adrian Searle for believing in this, banking on it and being kind, and to Elizabeth Reeder, fine editor, for having the perfect balance of incision and respect.

  This novel was begun on the dining table of soul friends Tony & Rosas Mitchell. To them and the many companions who have journeyed with me - sharing the bread of life, the water in the desert - my heartfelt thanks. We will be friends forever. And longer.

  Immeasurable love and gratitude go to my family, both at the beginning and now. To Warren and Jessie, for raising me in Nepal, India and Pakistan and in the embrace of Love. To brother Mark, for being my oldest friend and for adding your fine ones to our tribe. To the Appleby Harpa tree, for grafting me in. To my precious two, Sam and Luke, for growing up under my ribs, listening to stories; to Alistair, kindred spirit, provider, beloved, for making this possible and for being my home.

  For the Beautiful Name